‘We can’t leave him there, like that,’ she said, glancing back at the man dancing around like a wound-up ballerina in a jewellery box of fire. Kirby tightened his grip on her hand.
‘Shoot him,’ she shouted.
‘He’s not worth the waste of a bullet. Come on,’ he said. ‘Now!’
Lottie followed Kirby, Jason secure across his wide shoulders, and she clutched Sean around the waist, dragging him up the staircase with her. On the top step she allowed herself a backward glance. The man was ablaze, his skin a melting slime. He sank downwards, his screams dying as the inferno swelled out towards the wooden kneelers. Thick black smoke choked the air.
Her son was safe. That’s all Lottie could think of in that instant. Her son was safe.
She didn’t look back again.
She heaved Sean along the corridor, down the stairs, through the hall and outside. She dropped to her knees on the frozen steps, her son in her arms. She welcomed the cold air, coughing up smoke from her lungs, and remained there, statuesque, until the wail of sirens stole the silence of the night.
31st January 1976
Sally kept her eyes open all night long; the night of the Black Moon, Patrick called it.
She listened to the night-time sounds, to the soft breathing of the other girls in her room, to the scratching in the skirting boards and the ceiling. She imagined grotesque shapes dancing in the moonlight, belts and candles swaying toward her and away from her, like some obscene ballet. She heard babies crying in the nursery but no footsteps hurried to soothe them. They were alone. She was alone. And the night seemed to go on forever.
She didn’t know what had happened to her baby; she didn’t know why Fitzy had died; but she vowed there and then, that one day, however long it took, the truth would be revealed. She would remember for the rest of her life.
She lay awake as the first light of dawn broke through the window with the moon just a shadow in the sky.
DAY NINE
7th January 2015
One Hundred Seven
The first orange rays of dawn crested through a snowy horizon beyond the hospital walls while the nurse monitored Sean’s vital signs, as she’d done every twenty minutes for the last five hours. Contented that her patient was stable, she nodded to Lottie.
‘The doctor will be here in a minute, but Sean is doing fine.’ The nurse left.
Lottie kissed her son’s hand and forehead, and gently traced her finger over his eyes, telling him over and over she was sorry.
Watching the IV tube bleeding life into him, she counted each drop as it dripped downwards. One, two, three . . .
Sean’s eyelids fluttered. Lottie’s internal anger had caused her fingers to linger on his eyes. Removing her hand, as if it were scalded, she wondered how much longer could she go on causing her children pain.
The door opened. Boyd stood there wearing a navy cotton dressing gown, neatly tied around his narrow waist. His face, still bruised and pale, was grave. Lottie dipped her head and he was at her side.
‘You shouldn’t be in here. They’ll throw you out,’ she said.
‘Let them,’ he said, and gently kissed the top of her head. ‘Ugh, smoke.’
‘Feck off, Boyd,’ she sobbed.
‘It’s okay to cry.’ He rubbed her shoulder.
‘No, it’s not. I’ve failed him. Failed my son, my family. Jason too.’
‘You saved Sean.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, unable to screen the scorn from her voice, ‘but what about Jason? I should’ve figured it out sooner.’
He didn’t answer. She pushed him away.
‘You look terrible,’ she said.
‘So do you,’ he said, pointing to the wound on her arm. ‘The murderer, did he have a bruise and a limp?’
‘He does now. You better go.’
‘I’m getting out of here, anyway.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve too much to handle and I’m here like a spare prick watching soaps on the television. You need me.’
She didn’t object. She needed Boyd, even if he was like something out of The Walking Dead.
As the door closed behind Boyd, Lottie let her fingers linger for a moment on her son’s face before the nurse returned with the doctor and hustled her out.
Superintendent Corrigan paced the corridor, Lynch and Kirby behind him. No sign of Boyd.
‘Inspector Parker,’ Corrigan said, clamping a hand on her shoulder.
Lottie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
‘The bastard is barely alive and needs to go to the specialist burns unit in Dublin. He’ll have to wait until this snowstorm abates. Air ambulances are grounded,’ he said.
‘He’s still alive? Lottie asked, incredulously.
‘Prognosis is not good. Eighty per cent burns.’
‘Good,’ Lottie said. ‘And St Angela’s?’ She was avoiding the question she knew she must ask.
‘The fire was contained to the chapel. We’ll seal it off as a crime scene when the fire crew are done.’
‘Jason?’ she asked, eventually.
‘You know you were too late.’ Corrigan shook his head. ‘Feckin’ shit luck.’
Lottie swayed. She’d already known Jason was dead. Just needed it confirmed.
‘At least we have our murderer,’ Corrigan said.
‘I’m not so sure,’ she said, hesitantly. Hadn’t O’Brien told her he didn’t kill Susan or James or indeed Angelotti? He had no reason to lie. Especially as he had admitted to killing Father Cornelius Mohan.
Kirby steadied her as the Rickards appeared at the other end of the corridor. Corrigan moved toward them. Tom Rickard stared straight through her before taking Corrigan’s sympathetic handshake. Lottie allowed Kirby to steer her in the opposite direction.
‘Can I have a word, boss?’ Kirby said.
Leaning against the wall, Lottie nodded.
‘I know this isn’t a great time, but I have to tell you . . .’ he began.
‘Spit it out, Kirby.’
‘Moroney, the journalist . . .’
‘Go on.’ Somehow, she knew what he was going to say.
‘That stuff he reported about James Brown being a paedophile, well, I might have said something I shouldn’t have.’
‘Ah, Jesus, Kirby. What did you say?’
‘Moroney overheard a conversation about what we found in Brown’s house. He rang me for confirmation. We were up to our necks in reports and stuff, so I might have agreed with what he said, to get him off the phone.’
Lottie shook her head. At least now she knew the source of Moroney’s information. She had been wrong to suspect it might have been Lynch. Probably a genuine mistake on Kirby’s part. At least she hoped so. Deciding to let it go, she said, ‘Don’t let it happen again.’
Kirby exhaled and tapped his pocket for a cigar. ‘Thanks boss.’
‘And you did well with O’Brien.’ It was the closest she could come to a compliment in the circumstances. She watched Kirby stroll off down the corridor as Lynch joined her.
‘Sean? How’s he doing?’ she asked as they walked.
‘He’ll recover. In time,’ Lottie said.
Tom Rickard’s eyes. She didn’t want to see that look again any time soon. She’d found his son, like she’d said she would; but she’d failed him in the worst possible way.
Lynch said, ‘Kids always turn out fine.’
‘And what the hell does any of us know about it?’ Lottie muttered.
She kept on walking.
One Hundred Eight
Rounding the corner, she bumped into Father Joe standing at the nurses’ station.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said, flicking a strand of hair from his brow, breaking into a sad smile. But Lottie read sorrow in his eyes. Welcome to my world, she thought.
‘Joe.’ He was holding a bulky A4-sized envelope. Tiredness creased his face like crumpled linen. ‘What are you doing back home?’ she asked.
‘How’s Sean?’ he asked, ignoring her question.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘No. Not good. God, I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry, Lottie.’
‘Everyone is sorry. What good is sorry?’
‘I’ll come back later.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she cried. ‘I don’t want to see you again. My son almost died. And it’s all my fault.’
‘Nothing I say can make any difference at the moment,’ he said, lowering his head.
‘Then why are you still here?’
He handed her the envelope.
‘I paid a visit to Father Angelotti’s office. I got this.’
‘What is it?’ She turned the envelope over in her hand, still bristling.
‘Look at the return address.’
‘James Brown. He sent this to Father Angelotti?’ She noticed the postmark. ‘December thirtieth. The day he died.’ She questioned with her eyes. ‘But Father Angelotti was dead by then.’
‘Brown mustn’t have known that.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘All I know is Father Angelotti’s staff were getting ready to return it, so I volunteered to take it with me. I caught the next flight home.’
He took a sheaf of papers from his inside coat pocket and handed them to her.
Lottie arched an eyebrow. ‘What are these?’
‘I went back to Father Umberto’s place, looked through the records again and found more information that might be of interest to you.’
‘I haven’t time for all this now,’ she said, leaning against the wall.
‘I know,’ he said, his shoulders drooping.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, turned and walked down the cluttered corridor, leaving her standing alone.
She watched him until he disappeared behind the closing elevator doors. Her anger evaporated; in its place an intense loneliness settled.
One Hundred Nine
‘What’s in the envelope?’
Boyd leaned against the wall, outside Sean’s door. Fully dressed, looking like a corpse.
‘What the hell? Boyd? Are you serious?’
‘You need help and I’m it.’
‘You’re half-dead,’ Lottie said. ‘Go back to your room. I have the team.’
‘The envelope?’ he repeated.
‘I haven’t opened it yet.’ She turned it over in her hand. ‘James Brown posted this to Father Angelotti. Joe brought it from Rome.’
‘Joe? How cosy.’
‘Boyd?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t start.’
‘I’ve missed you, Lottie,’ Boyd said.
‘I missed you too, you daft man, and now I need to check on Sean.’
Voices echoed from the elevator. Katie and Chloe ran forward, tears streaming, arms outstretched. Rose Fitzpatrick hurried up behind them. Lottie smiled a weary thank you to her mother.
Her family, bruised and damaged, but complete.
With Sean awake at last and comfortable, his sisters either side of the bed holding his hands, Lottie could contain herself no longer. She tore open the envelope and read James Brown’s words. They jumbled up inside her, flitting about like an image from Alice in Wonderland’s mad tea party, then merged into a cohesive picture without the Mad Hatter. Now she had the full story, scripted in Times New Roman, imprinted firmly in the forefront of her mind.
She had to talk to Patrick O’Malley again. Before it was too late.
One Hundred Ten
She should really be with her son and the girls, but her mother told her to do what she had to do, then come back.
Sitting at her desk, Lottie felt totally at odds with herself, but at least her son was safe with his granny entrenched in his room, taking control as usual. But for once, she was glad of her mother’s help. Conflicted though she was, Lottie knew she had to end this case. Afterwards, she would make the space to spend time with her children. Sean needed her, Katie needed her and even Chloe, in her own obstinate way, needed her. As for Rose Fitzpatrick, Lottie knew her mother was a survivor, with or without her. For the first time, she acknowledged the grief and trauma her mother had endured. It couldn’t have been easy for her. She had battled through it all. Now she must do the same.
Kirby dropped a Happy Meal on her desk.
‘Lunchtime,’ he said.
Lottie glanced at the clock. So it was. She yawned and couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten or slept. A false energy was keeping her going so she didn’t stop to think about it.
She read through the copies Father Joe had given her.
‘Boyd, I think I know how Derek Harte, James Brown’s lover, became involved in all this.’
He sat on the edge of her desk. She welcomed his easy familiarity and at the same time she hoped he wouldn’t keel over.
‘Right, Sherlock,’ he said. ‘Explain.’
‘He’s a wrong number.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Seriously Boyd, look at this.’ She pointed to an entry on one of the ledger pages. ‘The reference number attached to Susan Sullivan is AA113.’ She lifted up another copy. ‘So look at the records for the babies and check reference AA113.’
Boyd scanned the page and found the number. ‘It says Derek Harte.’
‘But that number was changed.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Look at it carefully. You can see where the ink was rubbed away and a three put in place of a five. I believe this was changed intentionally. Someone didn’t want the true identity of Susan Sullivan’s child discovered.’
‘So, Harte wasn’t Susan Sullivan’s offspring after all,’ Boyd said. ‘Looking at it, I can understand how Father Angelotti made his mistake. But who is her child?’
Lottie pointed to the correct reference number and Boyd stared, his jaw dropping.
‘Are you serious?’ he asked.
‘Unless someone tampered with the other numbers, I’m very serious.’ Lottie shook her head wistfully. ‘It’s so sad.’
‘Does he know?’ Boyd asked.
‘I don’t think so.’
Boyd rubbed his hand over his scarred neck and said, ‘So all these people were killed to keep this fact a secret?’
‘That’s part of it.’
‘What’s the rest of it?’
Lottie pulled the old file out of her bag. She picked up the photograph of the young boy with the wry smile, freckled nose and crooked shirt collar. ‘This is the other reason.’
‘The missing kid?’ Boyd asked.
‘I think so.’
‘Are you going to wait until I go on bended knees to beg for the answers?’
Lottie smiled. She had really missed Boyd.
‘His mother reported him missing in early 1976, having put him in St Angela’s months earlier. The Church authorities branded him a runaway. He was never found.’ That was enough information for Boyd for now, she thought.
‘So what does James Brown’s information confirm?’
‘James Brown and others witnessed a murder in St Angela’s, perpetrated by Father Cornelius Mohan, aided and abetted by Brian. And when James and Susan threatened to expose it, they were murdered to keep the fact buried.’
‘Okay. Let me get this straight. Mike O’Brien, originally called Brian, was coerced by Father Con to take part in some sick ritual which resulted in the death of a boy, nearly forty years ago.’
‘Yes,’ Lottie said.
‘So who is the kid in the photo?’ Boyd asked.
‘Not now, Boyd.’
‘Lottie, I’ve read the file.’
‘Then why ask stupid questions? Let’s talk to Patrick O’Malley,’ Lottie said, closing the file. She shoved it back into her bag.
‘But we know O’Brien was the murdering bastard,’ Boyd said, once again rubbing the scars on his throat.
‘He only admitted to killing Father Con.’
‘Yes. And he half-killed me too. He didn’t admit to that, did he?’
/> ‘No, but I believe someone else murdered Father Angelotti, Susan Sullivan and James Brown.’
‘I’m lost now, Lottie.’
Lynch rushed into the office, hair loose, flying around her face.
‘We looked everywhere. There’s not a sign of O’Malley.’
‘He can’t just disappear,’ Lottie said. ‘He’s out there somewhere.’ She turned to Boyd. ‘Think. Where would O’Malley go? His past has come back to haunt him. Where would a tormented soul go?’
‘Back to the source of his torment?’ asked Boyd.
Lottie sprang out of the chair, wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. ‘You’re right. Come on.’
‘If you say so,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Next time you hug me, mind my wounds.’
‘Next time?’ She winked at him. ‘I’ll drive.’
She checked in with her mother at the hospital. Sean was doing fine.
Dumping the Happy Meal in the bin, Lottie followed her team out the door.
One Hundred Eleven
In daylight, St Angela’s had lost its sinister ambiance. It was only a rambling old building with doors and windows. But Lottie knew it shielded the secrets of horrific brutality behind its concrete and stone. She’d read the insanity in Cornelius Mohan’s faded notebook and followed the story in James Brown’s envelope. She’d discovered the cover-up in the Rome ledgers. And witnessed its legacy reincarnated last night. For what? Torn lives and damaged souls. Bodies buried but the living carrying the burden. That’s how she’d felt at Adam’s grave a few short days ago. Now she fully understood what she’d been thinking then and a crushing sadness settled in her heart.
Taking a deep breath, she walked over to the figure leaning against a scarred, bare tree.
‘They did a good job of saving the rest of it,’ Father Joe said, nodding toward the building.
The site was almost deserted. The fire crews had rolled up their hoses, slid ladders on top of truck roofs and departed from the site. A couple of gardaí manned fluttering crime scene tapes. Burning stench hung in the air, but the smoke was gone and smouldering embers remained. The chapel walls were singed black, windows shattered, the roof caved in. But the main structure of St Angela’s endured, unscathed.
The Missing Ones: An absolutely gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 1) Page 38
